


In Every Dream Home (Do Remember: the Wet and Rusting Remix)

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, M/M, Remix, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments, sometimes, when you get this feeling of a memory, this haze, this overwhelming notion of déjà vu, moments when you can close your eyes and actually feel like you’ve been missing something all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Every Dream Home (Do Remember: the Wet and Rusting Remix)

**IN EVERY DREAM HOME**  
(DO REMEMBER: THE WET AND RUSTING REMIX)  
SUPERNATURAL  
Sam/Dean; Dean/OFC  
 **WARNINGS** : AU  
Remix of [](http://dev-earl.livejournal.com/profile)[**dev_earl**](http://dev-earl.livejournal.com/) 's [Do Remember](http://dev-earl.livejournal.com/27866.html), which is a sequel to [Please Remind Me](http://dev-earl.livejournal.com/25913.html).

  
There are moments, sometimes, when you get this feeling of a memory, this haze, this overwhelming notion of déjà vu, moments when you can close your eyes and actually feel like you’ve been missing something all along. Moments, sometimes, when your father looks at you like he’s never seen you before, this name on the tip of his tongue, this name that tumbles from his lips, that breaches the cold night air when he starts to cry in his sleep. There are moments, yes, when you wish that you could just remember, that you could just have the pieces fit back together like they used to, before…before. This void, this name on your father’s lips, sometimes you lie awake at night, long after your father’s tears have dried, and you pray for everything to be right again, you pray for some kind of an answer.

You’ve never really believed in God, not with everything you’ve seen, not with everything you’ve seemingly forgot, but you try anyway, press your mother’s rosary close to your heart and wish for something different. Gather the cross tightly to your chest, hands folded, eyes shut tight, your mouth moving fast in the dark, and you wish for a better life for your father, a long life, and, sometimes, you just wish that you could remember.

Sometimes, you just wish that you never forgot.

There’s something there, those moments that waft over you like currents, like feelings long forgotten, this is something that lives tucked in the corner of your mind, something that’s just out of your reach. This is something you’ll never be able to get a hold of, those times your father looks at you with such disgust in his eyes, those times his hands curl into fists and it takes every bit of his strength to stop himself from hitting you, this is something you’ll never figure out. This is something that you’ll never be able to understand, and, hey, just maybe, this is something that’s killing you.

And there are moments, right, those shitty motel rooms and nights without sleep, those times your father sends you off to buy rock salt and bottles of whiskey, packages of food from the vending machines, anything to just get you out of the room so he won’t have to look at you anymore. Times when he presses his face to the pillow tight enough to stop the tears from coming, to stop his screams, times when he asks God to give him back a son you can’t even remember, his stilted sentences, his desperation. Times when he has to stop himself from talking about a boy you’ve never even met, this thing you can’t remember, this thing that’s just so goddamn important.

These moments like memories, this thing, this whatever you’ve forgotten, sometimes you wish that all of this could just leave you in peace.

***

You don’t fuck girls to forget, but you wish to God you could. There’s nothing to forget, really, those moments like memories, those things you’ve never remembered, you only fuck girls because it seems like the right thing to do. Because afterwards, your greedy grin as you walk back to the motel, your father’s silent anger, the way he clenches his jaw, because, honestly, you just want him to tell you what’s wrong with all of this.

Those girls, the ones you pick up from seedy bars, the waitresses behind the counter of all those greasy diners, those girls that don’t even think twice before you’re in the bathroom pushed up against the dirty wall. Before her hand is down your pants and you’re tilting your head heavenwards, before her mouth is kissing the spot just below your belly button, honestly, you just want to know why you shouldn’t be doing this. Those girls and the lipstick stains they leave on the collar of your shirt, on your skin, you just want to know why this is so bad.

Your father, his strong hands, he’s saying, “This isn’t you. This isn’t how this should be.” Those girls like moments, like memories, they’re in and out of your life so fast, you can’t even remember what they looked like. You can’t even remember anything past rounded curves and beautiful smiles, silky hair, small hands creeping deftly down the front of your unbuttoned jeans. Honestly, if they had names, you wouldn’t even know. Your father and the pained look on his face, you can’t tell him that those girls are only here to prove a point, that you only use them to show him that you can, to bate the answers from him in the only way you know how. Your father, he’s saying, “This isn’t what you want, this isn’t what you need.”

Your father, he’s saying, “You don’t even love those girls,” his mouth, the tears that just won’t stop, his stilted sentences. “You’ve only ever loved him.”

This boy you’ve never even met, this boy that makes your father cry in his sleep, these moments like memories, this name on the tip of your father’s tongue. These things you will never be able to remember, these things you’ve forgotten, you will never be able to tell him that you feel it, too. This haze like memories, like moments, this feeling of missing someone so bad that it hurts, you will never be able to tell him that you know what love feels like, that you know what it feels like to be in love, but you don’t even know why. You don’t even know how.

Your father and his ragged face, the black bags underneath his eyes, the wrinkles that have seemingly formed overnight, he looks older than he ever has before. His tired hands, he’s saying, “I wish it was me, Dean. I wish you wouldn’t have chosen him.” Your father and his cold eyes, he can’t even look at you, and you just want to know why. You just want to remember when you fucked this all up, when you hurt him this bad. And he’s saying, “Why couldn’t it have been me?”

The day your father suggests you split up, to cover more ground, he says, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, you don’t even question it. Mostly because it’s more of an order than a suggestion and mostly because, his dark eyes, his stiff hug, the strong arms that wrap around you, his voice has a pleading tone in it that you’ve never even heard before. His voice like gravel, burned from too many sips of whiskey, the flask he keeps in his pocket, this separation, it’s mostly because you try your hardest not to notice that his cheeks are wet after he lets go of you. His weathered face, these moments like memories you’ll never be able to remember, these things you’ve forgotten, it’s mostly because you know he just can’t do this anymore.

***

There is one thing, one memory, one moment that you do remember. This voice in your head, harsh, strong, and it’s not your father’s, it’s somebody else, another man, another boy. This voice in your head, this boy you’ve forgotten, he’s saying, “People don’t just disappear, Dean.” This boy you will never be able to remember, this boy you’ve never even met, he’s saying, “Other people just stop looking for them.”

And driving down the road in the Impala, the dusty wind that blows through the open windows, the sun that beats down hard on your white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, gripping tight, this feeling like you shouldn’t be alone, like there should be someone else riding shotgun, mocking you and your sense of direction. Driving down with the taste of all those girls in your mouth, the feel of their soft hair tickling across your sweaty skin, your back against brick walls and cheap mattresses, this taste of sweet smelling perfume, you remember the feeling of a hard chest against your own, and you don’t even know why. These rough, callused hands creeping up your sides, these strong legs wrapping tightly around yours, this feeling that you’ve only had in your dreams, this is such a big difference, and you’re not sure why it even matters. You’re not even sure what it means.

This voice in your head, the feeling that you know this boy, this feeling that you just can’t seem to shake, his voice, it doesn’t even go away when you turn up the music.

***

The funny thing is, you kind of hate college towns. Since your father left you to fend for yourself, you’ve been gathering together a pattern that leads you here, that has you looking for a werewolf with a penchant for biting students. Not that you mind, really, searching girls’ dorm rooms in the early hours of the morning for any trace of the wolf, and, hey, maybe even looking in the underwear drawer, too, if she lets you. And, hey, really, maybe even looking under the covers of her bed if her roommate’s out of town and your lies are good enough. But the thing is, even with all these hot girls, all these college towns, there are always bound to be fucking hippies.

The funny thing is, it’s here that you finally meet him.

It’s just a coincidence, really, running into a coffee shop that actually has real goddamn coffee, your adrenaline slowly dissipating from the night before, your eyes tired from long hours locked inside the public library searching through dusty books. You have images of newspaper from the microfiche burned into your brain, all you can smell is rotting paper, and you just want some kind of drug to tide you over, and, really, honestly, coffee’s the cheapest thing. Plus, none of the liquor stores are open yet.

You’re almost up to the counter, elbowing your way through skinny boys that smell like pot, soccer moms and businessmen, girls in skirts shorter than God ever intended, almost to the point where you can actually touch the wood, your sigh of relief just breaching your lips, when this guys bumps into you. Hard. He’s holding two cups of something that smells ridiculously sweet, something that makes your nose crinkle at the thought of what that must taste like, and he’s saying, “Oh! Sorry,” his goofy grin, his stupid hair cut. He’s saying, “I didn’t spill anything on you, did I?” His smile, there are dimples in his cheeks, and you just can’t help but stare.

There’s something there, something that’s so familiar, it feels like it never left. This flare of easiness, you feel like you’ve known this boy all of your life. His eyes, the way his tongue sweeps over his lips, you feel like he’s always been a part of you. And you’re saying, “No.” You and your stupid stare, you’re saying, “No, you didn’t.”

This boy, you know he can feel it, too. “Well,” he says, shrugging, moving past you to the table next to the window, he says, “Sorry.” And the girl that he gives a cup to, her giggles as she pokes fun at him, as she smiles and laughs and leans in to him, normally, you wouldn’t be able to think about anything past that golden blonde hair and shapely legs. Normally, you’d walk right over there and introduce yourself, because, honestly, you know when a guy’s playing out of his league, but, that boy, his deep voice, you turn back to the brunette at the counter instead.

It’s later, after you realize that being cooped up inside your motel room for the whole day planning this hunt has made you listless, later, when you walk downtown to the nearest bar, that all of this is a lot more than just a big fucking coincidence. Later, after you get a couple of shots in you to calm your nerves, after you contemplate what your father’s doing, what he’s hunting, after you try to tell yourself that he’s a lot better off without you, despite the tightening of your chest, despite the way your eyes start to tear up, it’s later that you realize this is more of a cosmic joke than anything. That this is all just someone up there fucking with you, because this is all just too funny to be anything but.

These moments like memories, this boy you’ve never even met, the boy from the coffee shop, he stands behind the bar, a dirty dishtowel slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the glint in his eyes tells you more than you ever need to know. The way his mouth quirks up on one side, he makes a flippant comment about the god awful music, something about getting some Zeppelin in here, maybe some AC/DC, something, anything that’s better than this, and you can’t help but smile back. You say, “Finally.” You say, “Someone with good taste.”

The hands that drop down a beer in front of you, a shot of whiskey as a chaser, they’re rough and callused and look eerily familiar, and somehow you just know what they feel like before you’ve even touched them. Somehow, this boy’s smile, the dimples on his cheeks, you already know what his hands feel like touching you. The boy you won’t ever be able to remember, this boy you’ve somehow forgotten, these moments like memories, he’s saying, “My name’s Sam.”

And you say, “Hi, Sammy. My name’s Dean.”


End file.
